Standing Alone
by Lori.Smith51
Summary: "John." A deep voice said behind him, barely a whisper, the voice of a man the world had long forgotten. "I'm..." The voice broke, his sentence trailing away, the words unsaid hung on his lips... After over a year and a half without John, Sherlock returns to Baker Street where he can finally witness the heart break he's caused
1. Chapter 1

A sleepy silence engulfed 221B in the early hours of a winter's Sunday morning. Frosted window panes clouded the view of the outside world and a year old newspaper lay spread misshapenly on the underside of a metal bin, bearing the headline "Suicide of Fake Genius". A human skull lay perched on top of a grand fireplace which had been without flames for some time now, and two arm chairs sat facing each other: a seemingly strange feature for those who do not know its meaning.

A man with dark brown hair stood in the centre of the room, clutching a deep mahogany coloured violin in pristine condition. His long charcoal grey coat perfectly tailored to his surprisingly strong build and his eyes were a mesmerising blend of vivid greens and shocking blue, that seemed to observe a persons every movement.

This was not how he had his envisioned his return. This was not what he had planned. Where was John?

* * *

><p>John Watson sat alone in Regents Park. It was just before sunrise and the air was bitterly cold, frost shimmering around the edges of the bench as its crystals danced to the orangey glow of a street lamp across the road. John's hands were going numb, he should have brought gloves, so he shifted his weight and put them in his pockets. Then again, what difference would it make? Everything was numb to him now. He had tried moving on, tried to fill the gaping void in his world but nothing came. Only bleak emptiness. No rest, no relief from his loss. He was sleepwalking through his life, slipping in and out of reality as he picked at the edges of his former self, attempting and failing to get back to normality. But how could he when he was missing the best part?<p>

With a heavy sigh he stood up, his legs tingling with the fist stages of frostbite and began walking, intending for his home-that-wasn't-really-a home and some tea.

* * *

><p>Sherlock glanced around the room. His face was cloned in places, cuts outs of newspapers and reports, an autopsy document bearing Molly's handwriting, an old school photograph, all connected with colour coded string. His whole life lay spread out in front of him, stuck up around the flat in a chronology almost army like. But then again -it was.<p>

John had been busy. This was going to be whole lot harder than he'd ever imagined. Sherlock stood perfectly still for some moments before even considering telling his legs to move, to leave. He couldn't do this, he couldn't face John knowing how much pain he had caused him, how much heartbreak. He bolted to the door in a manner which startled him as much as it defeated him and stopped almost as abruptly as he began, his hand on the door handle, his mind full of doubt. No. He had got this far. He had left John once, he couldn't leave him again.

* * *

><p>Turning the corner of Baker Street, John was suddenly reminded of a night over a year and a half ago. The very day of the fall. That's when they came. Small armies of people yelling abuse and throwing whatever they could get their hands on. Disgusted with the fact they had been lied to, or at least thought they had. On approaching the door, he noticed the previously jet black paintwork had began to peel and the wood was scattered with frayed chips where people had thrown all kinds of things at it. John watched his breath rise up in front of him as he ran his fingers over 221B's once golden letters and on unlocking the door, he went in.<p>

Nothing seemed out of place though if it were he wouldn't have noticed. It was messy, strewn about with things of Sherlock's -or things about him, as though he had tried to fill the place where the man himself could not. But these were just fragments of him, pieces of his life: the real Sherlock shattered on the pavement. John tugged off his coat, regretting it instantly because he flat was cold now and sank into his chair, staring at the one opposite. It was left untouched. He allowed no-one to sit in it, not even Mrs Hudson, who was deeply offended not to be to granted permission to sit down in her own flat. Still, she understood his motives oh too well.

He closed his eyes, replaying that devastating train wreck of a scene that fractured his life beyond repair. It had been over a year since "goodbye john", over a year since the fall, over a year since the person he cared most about slipped through his fingers. The last thing he had said to Sherlock face-to-face was that friends protect people, but he was wrong. He couldn't protect Sherlock now...

Without warning a shrill note sounded, slicing through the silence in a way which made it undoubtably that of a violin, hanging on the air. John's eyes snapped open. He knew that sound but it couldn't -it wouldn't be real.

"John." A deep voice said behind him, barley a whisper, the voice of a man the world had long forgotten. "I'm..." The voice broke, his sentence trailing away, the words unsaid hung on his lips.

John clenched his fingers, tensing instantly and curled them around the edges of the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment to register this fully in his mind and shakily stood up. If this really was a dream, then all he had to do was face the disappointment when he awoke. He could live with a little more of that. Taking a deep breath in, he opened his eyes and turned around...

* * *

><p>Chapter two of this fanfic is currently in editing!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Standing there was an impossible man. A man the world believed to be dead and yet, here he stood clear as day. The breath left John's lungs so quickly he thought he would pass out, but instead his legs locked rigid like stone, as heavy as lead, It was as though time had stopped- no not stopped, just slowed at half speed, allowing him to see Sherlock clearly for the first time in a very long time. He had thinned, his face more hollow than he'd ever seen it before and he was paler too, white like paper. His mouth the usual thin straight line, was curled down at the edges, his lips slightly parted as though he were about to finish his sentence but did not know what to say. The silence was the loudest he had ever heard. So loud it was deafening, filling the room and John felt the overwhelming urge to rush to the window to let some of it out, but his body was paralysed, frozen to the spot.

Sherlock stared for a long time unsure of what to do next, he hadn't planned this far ahead -maybe he never thought he'd actually get this far in the first place. He noted John had lost weight, his grey cable jumper just a little on the big side. Looking at the jumper made his head fuzzy, this is what he'd been wearing the very first day they met. The thought made him smile, the faintest of smiles that flutters on the lips and is only visible if your looking for it. John wasn't. His eyes were a duller colour, grey as though all the life had been drained from them, the eyes of a man who had seen far too much. He looked almost unwell- no not unwell, changed. This was not the man he had left behind.

Sherlock took a tentative step forward, firstly because he was unsure whether John was about to punch him and secondly because there was far too much space between them and there had been for far too long. Slowly, he raised his hand and gently grasped his partners. John flinched, his mouth dropped open and his throat went dry. This couldn't be a dream, could it? He allowed Sherlock to guide his hand back to his side and silence fell once more.

"You feel real." John said quietly, staring for a moment at Sherlock's hand, realising the last time he had felt it's warmth was whilst helplessly searching for a pulse, and finding none. He raised his eyes slowly to meet his.

"You are real," he announced more for his own benefit than the detective's, reassuring himself that this wasn't a hallucination. Now he was glad of the numbness because he was sure if he could feel properly it would be overwhelming. A huge surge of emotion: anger? confusion? heartbreak? Probably all three.

"You have to stay now" he said. It was intended to be firm but his voice quivered, betraying him

"I..." His voice gave out.

Sherlock watched as his greatest friend fell apart and his eyes glaze as he fought back the salty water beginning to form in them. He has missed his voice, there were no words to describe it. It was just so 'John' and right now Sherlock could think of nothing better than filling him self with John. The flex of his left hand and little cough he did when he was nervous, the way he said "brilliant" at the simplest of deductions and the snarky comments he made to Mycroft. His ruffled hair in the mornings and his 'you're such an idiot' smile, the angry outbursts at chip and pin machines and how he thought the Queen read his blog. But he wasn't sure it could ever be the same. John was empty, broken with grief, shattered like the pieces of his heart left behind on the pavement.

"John I..I...I'm sorry..." For the first time in his life Sherlock couldn't think. His mouth was moving but no words surfaced and yet, he had so much more to say. Finally he managed to choke out a sentence.

"I'm staying. I'm never going to leave you again..."

The punch came so fast and with such spontaneity that Sherlock was knocked off his feet and had collided with the armchair before he'd even realised what had happened. When he looked up John was looking down at him, his expression just as surprised as Sherlock felt. With caution, he rose gradually to his feet, the left side if his face stinging and the taste of blood in his mouth.

"No." John breathed, "No, you can't just come back here now and think everything's going to be fine-"

"I'm, I'm so sorry..."

Anger swelled up inside of him, uncontrollable and brutal like a burning inferno.

"Sorry? That's it? You have no idea what I've been through Sherlock! I, I watched you jump of that building, I watched you fall to your death and ran to your side as you passed. I was the one who took your pulse while you lay on that pavement, I was the the one who stood by your graveside at your funeral, you are the one who left me on my own so don't you dare tell me you're sorry because you mean nothing to me anymore..."

As soon as the words left his lips his stomached churned with regret.

"Do have any idea how that feels? he whispered, his voice threadbare with fragility  
>"Seeing someone you lov-" But he cut himself off, tears brimming to the surface and threatening to spill.<p>

How did...no you know what, I don't care. I don't care Sherlock and you know why? Because your are here now and you are never, ever, leaving again." An air of finality lingered on his words.

Blinking now, tears were forming but he wouldn't let them fall, blur his vision of sherlock and watch them wash him away. There was time for questions later. For now, all he wanted was to be closer to him. He inched forward, their faces so close he could see every colour blazing in Sherlocks eyes and every lock of tumbling brown hair so clearly they were nearly touching. Leaning closer, he nestled against his chest and felt the warmth of his body, the blood pumping around his strong very-much-alive frame and his heart thumping heavily against his chest.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him, enveloping him in a far overdue embrace, something that had been needed so very long ago. John began shaking, trembling, so he pulled him tighter, relaxing his ice cold body and warming him through. He wanted this moment to last forever, but then something happened. Something that had never occurred to Sherlock before. A single tear trickled down his cheek, his mind swamped with emotion, his eyes stinging from the salty water. And then, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes cried.

John closed his eyes, breathing in his scent as though he could breath in the man himself and never let him go. When John relaxed he became suddenly aware he wasn't the one trembling anymore. He looked up at Sherlock his face distorted with a mixture of emotion and bewilderment, his mind telling him to control his emotions, his body saying no. He was crying without making any sound the warm droplets sticking to his face and then rolling over then edge of his razor sharp cheekbones. Their eyes locked and then the pain came through fresh and raw and they were standing in the living room hugging and crying together, neither one of them making a sound to disturb the moment or space because it would feel like violation.

John buried his face into Sherlocks clothing vaguely wondering if the material would soak up his tears and sighed thrummingly. Outside, the winters morning light was creeping through the curtains. It was a cold light that offered no warmth, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that Sherlock was back, the consulting detective and his blogger and their new beginning.

Reluctantly John released Sherlock from the hug and grinned.

"Tea?"


End file.
